


Resurrection

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV), Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mentions of Flame and Citron, Mentions of The Hunt (2012), Other Additional Tags to Be Added (If this work gets continued), Possible Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 02:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10295309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Orson Krennic works as the Director of a whiskey company, and the death of his partner and the company's most skilled engineer, Galen Erso, shatters him from the inside out. But when people who look like Galen keep visiting him, Orson gets a bad feeling about this, and perhaps he's not wrong.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey...as you can see, this is a little different from what I usually do, and I'm not sure if this something I can really pursue. So I'll mark it as complete for now, and if this teaser thing does well, I'll write more (I have so many ideas for this!). Let me know if I should continue this! Enjoy!

"Will you stop  _ coming to me, _ " Orson groaned as a man entered his office, all too familiar with Galen...or Lucas...or Jorgen's face. He nearly dropped the glass of whiskey in his hand.

"My apologies, have we met before? Orson stared up at him, watching as whoever the hell this man was sniffed the air. A look twisted his face, but he said nothing. “Lecter. Doctor Hannibal Lecter.” 

"You're not real," Orson hissed, stubborn. "Galen is dead." 

Hannibal turned to look at him with an arched eyebrow. "Precisely. I'm here to further investigate the bombing. As for the not real...I can assure you I’m not an illusion." Orson does drop the whiskey this time, and he looked beyond miserable. 

One year ago, Galen and Orson were talking about the most uninteresting topics, just to indulge in each other's company. Galen had smiled at him, right before a terrorist explosive took the building right next to the two. Galen, being that much closer to the blast, fell into the street, and Orson, injured but alive, raced over to his partner. 

_ No! You'll be alright, my love.  _

_ It's...okay, Orson. I will come back to you. _

_ You better promise me, Galen.  _

_ I promise you. _

And that promise had not been in vain. Two months later, a Lucas knocked on his door, and Orson nearly melted on the spot, and he fought the urge to kiss the man right where he stood. Because something wasn't right - Galen had died in his arms. Lucas introduced himself, and Orson, with a glum look, discovered that Lucas was a teacher in need of a place to stay, and that's when Orson realized that this was the same Lucas that Orson rented half his apartment to on Craigslist.

Eventually, Orson was able to get over Galen's death, and Lucas seemed to fall in love with Orson just as Galen had. Lucas pulled in for a kiss in an alleyway, and because his eyes were so full of Lucas, Orson didn't see the man or the knife. He chased after the killer and subsequently beat him relentlessly, his brief army training flooding back into him before he sprinted back to Lucas who died in his arms, again. 

_ You're going to be just fine, I swear it. _

_ It's...okay, Orson. I will come back to you. _

The same words jolted a shock through Orson; the same words Galen uttered before his death. His heart nearly stopped, and he forgot to speak, wasting away the last moments of Lucas' life. He had stood up, a murderous look on his face, and delivered the half-dead killer to authorities. He turned out to be a no-name pedophile who made a little less money than he would like. Orson took savage pleasure in making sure the killer rotted in prison. 

The third time Galen came back to him was in the form of Citronen. Orson learned to be wary of his special visitors, and with Citronen, it was no different. It was revealed to him that Citronen's name was actually Jorgen at some point, but he remained calling this new reincarnation "Citron". 

Orson's mother had fallen ill at this point, and the CEO, or Director as he better fancied himself, took a few days off to spend with his mother. Citron accompanied him, and the volley of bullets that came through the window wounded and killed seventeen, Citron included. 

He didn't even bother to reassure Citron, hoping that perhaps Galen's resurrections would leave him alone. He couldn't help but be attached to all of them, and the anguish of watching them die mere months or even weeks after he met them tore at Orson's insides. 

_ It's...okay, Orson. I will come back to you.  _ And at Orson's silence, he added an  _ I promise you _ .

Orson wanted to scream. He wanted to tell Citron not to promise him anything, and just to leave him to grieve in peace. Though he had fallen madly in love with both Lucas and Citron, Galen was forever foremost in his mind. And he felt almost guilty falling in love with them, reincarnations or not. But it was too late, Citron died in his arms as Galen and Lucas had done. 

And now, Hannibal stared him down with a dangerous intensity, and Orson felt as if he would cry. 

"I will be in town for a few weeks to resume investigations. Do you mind if I stay in your apartment while I do so?" Orson wanted to shout no. He wanted to tell him to leave so perhaps he could break this endless cycle of love and death. But when he did speak, it wasn't him that spoke. It was his mouth. 

"Of course." 

The two of them talked as they walked down the busy streets of Minnesota. As they got in an Uber and crossed the bridge stretching across the Chesapeake Bay, a strange look overturned Hannibal's face. 

The Uber dropped them off at Orson's modest apartment, and he showed Hannibal to the room...the room where Lucas and Citron used to sleep. Galen slept with him in the master bedroom, of course, but he couldn't bear bringing another into the same bed. 

Hannibal had few personal possessions. He had many suits and a few intricate books in languages Orson couldn't understand, but besides that, he didn't have anything else. He turned to Orson after putting on a golden watch, and asked kindly but firmly to be taken to the bomb site.

They had to cross a dark alleyway to get there, and sudden flashbacks of Lucas' death flashed through him, but he didn't say anything; he only held a lively conversation with Hannibal. Suffice it to say, Orson wasn't even surprised or angry that a thief with a gun cornered them. Perhaps better now when he had yet to feel an attachment for Hannibal Lecter. 

"Nice watch," the man spat at Hannibal with a wicked grin. "And what a wonderful suit. Now you're going to give me both or your brains'll be on the pavement." Orson turned to Hannibal, a terrified look on his face, but Hannibal only wore a soft smile. 

"Of course, dear," Hannibal whispered, and Orson nearly recoiled at how silky his voice became. Hannibal fiddled with his watch for a moment before pulling something out of it with a loud grunt. Orson watched, his mouth slack, as Hannibal reared forwards to knock the gun away and plunge whatever it was into the thief's neck, who, promptly fell to the ground, body thrashing like a fish out of water.

Orson almost collapsed in a fit of laughter. Hannibal...Hannibal had defied destiny. He was meant to die here as fate willed Galen, Lucas, and Citron to do so. When Hannibal turned to look at Orson, he misjudged why Orson looked so weird. 

"I apologize for this...needle in the carotid artery. It's messy, I know, but I didn't have another option. Are you alright?" 

Orson wanted to cry.

“No,” he murmured. “Please, please can we go back to the apartment?” Orson felt even surprised at himself for asking permission. It wasn’t really something that he did very often, but he felt weak, his legs made of water. Hannibal nodded slowly, and glanced down at the body with a look that was almost wistful.

“The needle can’t be used to trace fingerprints,” Hannibal informed him as they left the site when he noticed Orson drew a breath to speak. Orson closed his mouth, not reassured, but they left, their pace not slow yet not brisk enough.

Not a single drop of blood was on Hannibal’s suit.

They didn’t take the same route back to the apartment. Well...Hannibal didn’t and Orson shuffled along like a child. Never before had Galen been one to take initiative like that. Orson didn’t know what to make of Hannibal Lecter, but he felt the familiar pull to Galen, and now to Hannibal. And then it hit him when they were safely back in Orson’s apartment.

“My God, you’ve killed before,” Orson breathed, his tone hushed. When Hannibal denied it, Orson believed him. Hannibal’s tone never wavered and his facial expression didn’t even twitch. He simply sipped at the glass of tea Orson offered him and spoke minutes after the question was issued. 

“I’m also a surgeon, Krennic,” he offered. “To understand how to patch up an injury, you must learn about the injury itself.” 

The gaze Hannibal set on Orson left no room for his true meaning. 

“There’s nothing wrong,” he said, trying to keep his voice as silky as Hannibal’s was. 

“Krennic, I am a detective, surgeon, and forensic psychiatrist. And I cook.” Hannibal’s voice wavered ever so slightly at that but he continued, realizing Orson was too out of it to notice. “Please do not insult my intelligence.”

“I’m just remembering my friend who died,” Orson murmured. Hannibal leaned in further on the couch, looking the slightest bit more satisfied. He didn’t detect a lie, because there was no lie. Galen was plaguing Orson’s mind. 

Orson felt ill himself, and distantly, he wondered if he could do things differently. After all, different kind of Galen requires a different path of fate...right? Hannibal would be different. Perhaps the one Galen who wouldn’t be lost to him.

Still, he couldn’t help but think Hannibal was different. The look Hannibal gave him through the teacup made Orson shudder, and he wanted Galen all over again.

 


End file.
